


Asshai'i Healing

by Adadzio



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Comfort/Angst, F/M, Post-The Battle of the Blackwater, Rage, Rituals, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 08:27:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9114982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adadzio/pseuds/Adadzio
Summary: After the Blackwater, Stannis comes to question Melisandre's place in his life. The answers only lead to more questions.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted in my drabble series, but it's long enough to deserve its own fic ~
> 
>  **Prompt:** "could you a fic/drabble where stannis+mel are at dragonstone after blackwater  & he is like really angry + always screams at her to leave him alone etc & she refuses & he asks "why do you stay" & she's like "because I love you, idiot" kinda like that"

Dragonstone was somehow deader than it had been before. The sea was heavy, as dark and turbulent as his wounded soul, and with each tide he saw his fleet burning green beneath the waves. Charred boys seemed to stare back in accusation, eyes unblinking in the night—Davos and all his lost sons, and the sons of fathers who’d trusted his command. They washed ashore one by one. 

“Will you go to your grave sulking?”

Stannis whipped from the window in time to see the red priestess drifting into his inner chambers. “Who let you in?” he demanded.

Firelight danced through her coppery hair as she spoke. “Your guards, of course. I was always given entrance to your camp pavilion.” 

Something told Stannis she had the power to enter any place she so desired, regardless of obstacles. “I cannot decide if you’re still ignorant of Westerosi custom, or simply presumptuous.”

“That is the most you’ve said since you returned, my king.” Silence followed, so she softly continued, “I wished to inquire on Your Grace’s health.” 

“Did you truly?”

Melisandre’s brows knit together. The sight gave him cruel satisfaction. “This castle is direly concerned for its lord, a sentiment I share.” 

“Spare me your false tears,” he snapped. Violent rage was simmering in his veins, stoked by each word from her tempting lips. “You’ve come here to reprimand my mistakes, and I’ve little desire to hear it.”

“Your Grace has surely learned a lesson. But it was not mine to teach.” 

“Oh? And do you no longer dole out chastisement on behalf of your god?”

Finally her calm guise cracked. “Have the truth, then. This is precisely why you failed at the Blackwater. How can I be of use when you send me away at every stubborn turn? How can I help you if you dismiss me like a distracting trinket?”

“How  _could_  you be of use on a warship?” he retorted. “You, who has never glimpsed a battlefield? You said I would have a victory, did you not?”

“You will. Just not at the Blackwater. I know that now.”

Stannis cursed, stalking about the room like a wild animal. “How imprecise your abilities are.”

“I see what R’hllor shows me,” she frowned, clutching her red skirts. “You are ill, and should rest.” 

The king rounded dangerously on her. “And what of you? Are you aware of the madness swirling in your head?”

Melisandre’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The only mad ones are those who deny R’hllor and his truth. Your Grace, I might counsel you look to the fire— ”

“How many high councils have you been on, Melisandre?”

“I am no politician,” she said cooly.

“No, far from it. And do you know you’ve only wormed your way into this one because you’re easy to look at?” Fire flashed in her eyes, but she stood calm as ever, further inciting him. “There is your precious truth,” he spat. “I’ve enjoyed you in my bed, but I begin to think your grand talent stops there!”

“Stannis— ”

“Take my word, you should charge a pretty sum for fucking.” She finally turned away, retreating furiously to the door. “Have I offended you?” the king demanded. He swiped violently at the contents of his desk. “I command you stop and answer me, damn you! Prove to me you’re human!” 

Melisandre froze in the archway. “I see what R’hllor shows me,” she repeated tightly, pale chest rising and falling in restraint. “I thought…after those evenings shared in the Stormlands, I thought you— ”

“Had fallen under your spell?” 

“Trusted me!” Her red gaze faltered for just a second. “Is  _that_  why you shipped me back here? Your lords whispered too loud, and you began to doubt my intentions?”

“No,” he admitted, “it just seemed the proper thing to do.” His fury had begun to dissipate, leaving exhaustion and regret in its wake. A moment passed. 

Her own voice was little more than a whisper when it returned. “If being a woman is my crime, so be it. But you must know I have only ever striven to serve you.” He’d wanted her to scream at him, strike him, speak passionately of the red god’s wrath. “You should not have sent me away,” she murmured instead, staring at the stones below.

“No," he agreed dully. "Forgive me. I spoke too harshly, my lady. You must forgive my current mistrust of sweet words and promises.”

Melisandre turned, considering him with those unsettling eyes. Then she approached him cautiously, as if he were truly a wild stag. “I do, my king…In the meantime, you are injured. Allow me to heal you.” Her voice was thick with a rare emotion, and for once he glimpsed mortality beneath her striking beauty. Under the loose scarlet silks, her heart was beating as rapidly as his. No matter what divine protection she boasted, despite whatever alluring charm she might employ, she was no more a goddess than he was a messiah. 

“My injuries are minor,” the king insisted. Once she was a step away, her radiating heat began to warm him. He closed his eyes for a brief moment. 

Melisandre took this opportunity to press a palm flat to his pounding heart. “Too often we grow numb to our wounds, my king…” She ran her fingers lightly down his sternum to the left side of his ribcage, bones that had been bruised by the impact of the wildfire. “Does this not pain you?”

He winced, disguising his discomfort as a shrug. “Merely sore.” 

“It does not ache when you breathe?” 

“No,” he lied.

“You’ve broken it,” she said flatly. 

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” 

“Will you just allow me to heal it, you obstinate man?”

Stannis groaned. “If it will quiet your  _concerns_.”

Her lips curled up for a brief, mesmerising moment, and then she was pulling a small amber bottle from a mysterious crease in her robes. Pale hands clutched the little vial to her bosom. “From my chest, the one I brought from Asshai,” she confided, and then she coaxed him to sit on the edge of his bed. In one smooth motion she tossed the bottle next to him and settled herself in his lap, a hand falling on his shoulder. His ears suddenly felt very warm. Stannis reminded himself that they’d been in far more compromising positions, conducted their shame in plain sight of his bannermen for months. The realisation only served to heighten his discomfort. 

“Focus on the fire,” she instructed.  _The fire?_ How could he, when there was a soft hip pressed into his abdomen, and she was leaning to the side, free hand tugging at his shirt? The woman was practically on her hands and knees, the curve of her bottom raised in torturous temptation. Her silks parted so he could glimpse her ankles and calves, and if she bent forward just an inch more, he was sure her thighs would be revealed as well. 

Melisandre _tsked_ , running her fingers over gruesome purple and yellow bruises. “My poor king…” She unscrewed the bottle and spilled a single drop of clear liquid onto her palm. Every motion mesmerised him. Her fingertips swept through the concoction, then pressed against his injured rib. He reacted more violently than he had to the wildfire. “Relax,” she soothed. 

Stannis tried, but it was difficult to accustom to this strange eastern healing. She was humming softly, moving her fingers in slow circles over his skin, then murmuring melodically in a tongue he’d never heard before. It seeped into his bones until her voice was nothing more than a chiming bell. Eventually a slow warmth formed at the crown of his head and dripped down his body like melting milkfat, and he felt as if he’d had a long, dreamless night of sleep—something he hadn’t experienced in months. 

“Enough woman, by gods…”

Melisandre’s red eyes widened in alarm. “It hurts you?” 

“My blood is afire,” he complained dramatically. A moment later his senses came back to him, a revelation not far behind. “Yet the pain is gone.” 

She smiled for the briefest of moments again, all closed-lips and secrets. “You believe now, you see R'hllor's power.” 

He took an incredulous breath to test it. “Perhaps more than before,” he conceded. 

“Good. But my king…” There was a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “The fire you spoke of was no illusion.” 

He followed her gaze downward to see that his body had been aroused by the feel of hers. “Oh,” said Stannis awkwardly. 

“Allow me to soothe these other pains,” she purred, hands already making nimble work of the laces on his breeches. The king did not argue.

Afterward, when their breathing matched the fire in ease, her fingers made lazy patterns across the gaunt shadow of his jaw. He’d grown lax in shaving—no doubt his face was a sight. “What do you stay here for?” he wondered aloud. 

Melisandre did not seem offended, only made a small noise.

He regretted asking. Feminine speech had always been a mystery to him, let alone the vague sounds that came from this bewildering creature. “Oh Stannis,” she eventually sighed, limbs tightening around his. “I stay for  _you_.” 

He fell into a deep sleep before he could wonder  _why_.


End file.
